Searching for the Origins of the Appalachian Trail

The little trail we are hiking in the North Georgia woods belongs to us and the bears. The hardwoods overhead are as diverse as any in the Eastern United States. The ferns, galax, poison ivy and other native groundcover have almost closed in at our feet.

Split Rock Trail, Tate Mountain

My trail buddy, Colin Calvert, is a cousin, fresh out of Georgia State College with a degree in environmental science and experience with Geographic Information System maps. He is reading the woods for clues of the original Appalachian Trail. It’s impossible to find, because it moved from here 63 years ago to the current southern terminus of Springer Mountain, about 12 miles northeast as the crow flies.

I have two topographic maps in hand, both of them having the same underlay of the U.S. Geological Survey map of this area. Their elevation lines are whorled like a fingerprint – in this case, matching fingerprints. We’re on the maps’ 3,000-foot elevation line, walking up to the next line 20 feet higher.

One map is overlaid with the trails of a private summer vacation-home community. My cousin and I are fourth and fifth generation inheritors of this Brigadoon. It began as an upscale vacation development in 1930, the same year the original Appalachian Trail was first blazed through its woods and Stiles & Van Kleek golf course. The trail we’re on we call Split-Rock Trail; on the map it’s a loop drawn with a dotted line. Maybe the AT went through the split rocks, but we can’t be sure.

The other map is overlaid with the original Appalachian Trail that tracks the crazy pattern of lost pieces of the trail, including the first southern terminus, which holds vivid memories for me. In my childhood summers, this enchanting place in the mountains of Pickens County, near Jasper, was a whippoorwill and timber rattlesnake haunt that seemed most wild on the ridge that was the Appalachian Trail. 

Those childhood memories, combined with the discovery of a road called Old Appalachian Trail near my son’s house in Virginia and the knowledge that 2021 was the trail centennial, sparked my curiosity, setting me on a quest to find the original pieces of a great American creation.

***

The year was 1921. Military veterans had returned from war to American cities they didn’t recognize. More than a half-million Americans had died in a worldwide pandemic. Two summers earlier, many cities, north and south, had been rocked by race riots. That was the climate of the nation when the idea for the trail was born.

In an essay headlined “An Appalachian Trail: A Project in Regional Planning” published 100 years ago this month in The Journal of the American Institute of Architects, Benton MacKaye first proposed creating the trail.

One of Harvard’s first graduate students in forestry, MacKaye devoted himself to influencing the shape of what he called “the Wild East” through his singular idea of regional planning. His article proposing an Appalachian Trail was both practical and poetic, both socialist and American, the small start of a big idea he called “a retreat from profit” – a kind of sabbath break from America’s frenzied urbanization and mechanization.

The only unbroken wilderness within a day’s drive of America’s industrial East, he wrote, was the great stretch of Appalachian ranges. “The skyline along the top of the main divides and ridges of the Appalachians would overlook a mighty part of the nation’s activities,” according to MacKaye. “The rugged land of this skyline would form a camping base strategic in the country’s work and play.” MacKaye’s proposal was to link this skyline together from Northeast to Southwest, along America’s original colonies.

MacKaye’s vision was joined by two men, a Connecticut judge named Arthur Perkins and Myron Avery, a lawyer in Washington, D.C., and a tireless organizer who headed up the Appalachian Trail Conference for two decades. He shared MacKaye’s idea of volunteer teams blazing and maintaining the trail, but Avery emphasized distance hiking over MacKaye’s idea of educational camps and shared farms. They quarreled and MacKaye shifted his interest, co-founding The Wilderness Society in 1935. From then until Avery’s death in 1952, MacKaye had little to do with the ever-evolving Appalachian Trail.

It’s hard to say exactly when the Appalachian Trail was born. After MacKaye’s article was published, 10 years passed before efforts were made to begin linking the existing trails. Long after the linkage was completed in 1937, many of the early routes were moved for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the development of the Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive.

Fancy Gap, Virginia

It was another 31 years before President Lyndon Johnson signed the National Trails System Act on Oct. 2, 1968. The act renamed it the Appalachian National Scenic Trail and gave ownership of the pathway to the National Park Service, although its maintenance continued to be shared with volunteer teams like those under the Conservancy today. From the 1920s until 2005, these volunteers called their organization the Appalachian Trail Conference.

If there’s no agreed-upon birthday for the trail, Benton MacKaye’s article clearly marked its conception. And that’s why the Appalachian Trail Conserancy is celebrating the centennial with a three-year strategic plan aimed at honoring the vision of that essay.

***

The original southern point of the Appalachian Trail was Mt. Oglethorpe, in Pickens County. When early hikers followed the dirt Monument Road some 10 miles north from the marble obelisk that honored Georgia’s founder, they came to the development around my family’s house, which included a rustic lodge, long since burned down, and a sparkling lake 2,700-feet above sea level.

I often wondered about those early hikers passing through this private property. Were they shot at by moonshiners? Our summer neighbor, the writer Harold Martin, who had a cabin close to the old trail, said his kitchen sink – which was fed by a wooden barrel reservoir near the trail – often spewed coffee grounds and bits of scrambled eggs from hikers using that barrel for dish washing.

In 1958, apparently to avoid such public-private tensions, the trail’s southern terminus moved to Springer Mountain. (Later, the Benton MacKaye Trail was also blazed from Springer Mountain, meandering 288 breathtaking miles through Tennessee and North Carolina to rejoin the Appalachian Trail in the Great Smoky s National Park.)

A few years ago, I discovered another remnant of Benton MacKaye’s earlier pathway. Near my son’s farm on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Fancy Gap, Virginia, there’s a gravel service road named Old Appalachian Trail. When snow closes the parkway, it’s the only access to US 52 into Mt. Airy, North Carolina. I was curious: How could the trail have moved more than 100 miles to the west?

Marty Dominy, who lives on a farm with his 94-year-old mother near Toomsboro in middle Georgia, has been diligently seeking answers to such questions for more than 30 years. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy put me in touch with Dominy, and he supplied me with his topographic maps and micro-histories of the original trail. The color-coded lines he had drawn and the details he gleaned from tattered old guidebooks seemed to spring from an eccentric obsession. The Appalachian Trial has that effect on many people.

Dominy’s obsession originated with a 1985 article in a Conservancy newsletter seeking volunteers to help gather old guidebooks and conduct oral histories on the original trail. Dominy responded and was informed that the article had elicited “virtually no response” to the article. So Dominy, in effect, took on the entire challenge himself.

“I sort of tried to formalize it by putting together an outline of what it should look like,” Dominy said.

Dominy has developed an orderly system of documentation that combines a topographic map and a narrative on sections of abandoned pathways that span 10 to 20 miles long. Dominy has created more than 100 maps and written more than 1,000 digital pages of narrative, tracking various locations of the trail as it shed earlier versions like so many snake skins.

Aficionados may disagree about how much of today’s trail is original (as they disagree about the current length), but Dominy’s calculation is surely the most authoritative: Original trail segments constitute somewhere between 25% and 30% of the existing trail, he said.

***

On a bright, windy Saturday, my wife, Libby, and I headed up the Blue Ridge Parkway from Fancy Gap, Virginia, in search of the original Appalachian Trail around the Pinnacles of Dan. Dominy’s topographic map had a few stretches of a 1931 footpath marked in blue between the Parkway and the upper Dan River. We followed one of these, driving along state route 638 to Bell Spur Cemetery and soon merging with Squirrel Spur Road before veering north into a field of private property.

The blue lines of the oldest trail look like the track of a lost child, splitting into two to zigzag along crests and down to the river. A 1934-39 alternative, in red, leaves the split and heads south for a shortcut to where the blue trail wanders on.

We returned to the Parkway to look for the path further north and east. Back on the original 1931 path, Va. 610 took us to a high meadow that beckoned. It was the first place we found without a sign or fence to stop us from parking and hiking in. We tromped with our two dogs down a lovely slope of unkempt grasses and wildflowers, strawberries and goldenrod. By the spring woods, we spread a cover and had our picnic. It was a magical stolen moment on an Appalachian Trail long gone. We saw no one.

A recent email sent by the Appalachian Trail Conservancy soliciting donations states that, “While the A.T. became a continuous footpath from Georgia to Maine in 1937, the years that followed highlighted how fragile the trail’s existence truly was. The economy rapidly expanded after World War II, and the resulting urban sprawl and development led to significant trail relocations — some measuring 75 to 150 miles in length — in order to maintain the integrity of the A.T. experience.”

My wife and I didn’t see urban sprawl. But we did see private property and “No Trespassing” signs. Back in the late ‘30s, there was a three-way skirmish between the mountaineer property owners, the builders of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Appalachian Trail Conference that forced the relocation of the trail in remote areas like this. Very few sections of the original trail are on today’s parkway, but the idea was to keep the trail from being even within eyesight of it.

On another hike, we left I-81 north and took state route 56 through the deserted-looking railroad village of Vesuvius. (Long gone is the fire-belching factory that gave it the name of the classical Italian volcano.) Through a lifting fog, with bars of morning sunlight changing angles with the road’s steep winding climb, we drew breath in awe realizing we were entering the Blue Ridge Mountains at the perfect peak of fall. The road runs under one of those beautiful parkway bridges, its stones laid by crews of New Deal agencies like the CCC and WPA. On the east down slant, about a half mile on, we stopped at a large gated field with a pond, our guess for where the ancient trail went west toward the parkway.

Dominy’s map had a blue trail line that seemed to begin here, somewhere between Montebello and Tye River Gap on Crabtree Falls Highway. We drove further south, turning right on Va. 603 and right again on Va. 813. This ended at the parkway, milepost 29, near a shipshape National Park Service facility for easy parking.

We began hiking north, parallel to the parkway, until the trail curved left to what seemed to be our goal: Whetstone Ridge. It’s an 11.3-mile trail that was the original trail for 4.5 miles. At that point, the old trail turned left along Big Branch, then south along Irish Creek, then back to what later became the parkway. We weren’t prepared to do that full loop; it would have meant ending the hike 11 miles from our car, but we were delighted to have discovered Whetstone Ridge Trail.

The trail had a few stone steps we imagined had been set for the original trail. To the east, from the rocky ridge, we could see eastern ranges of the Blue Ridge. To the west, Wilkie Ridge.

Bright red leaves of sourwood decorated a trail of fallen gold and brown leaves. Mountain laurel, hemlock and white pine gave green to all the bright sun-struck gold around us. The quiet was sacred, with only an occasional laugh from a woodpecker.

We had finally arrived at MacKaye’s elusive wilderness.

***

It goes without saying, the original Appalachian Trail is hard to find. Its memory is paved over by secondary state roads or lost in meadows posted as private property. The pursuit of happiness in America is tightly bound to the right to private property. Benton MacKaye was seeking to renew a relationship between human-scale community and nature’s wilderness outside of private property and the profit motive.

He saw an unbroken ridgeway from Maine to Georgia as a chance for ordinary, hard-working Easterners “to catch a breath, to study the dynamic forces of nature and the possibilities of shifting to them the burdens now carried on the backs of men.”

The meaning of the 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail today – especially to thru-hikers and “Fastest-Known-Time” runners – has evolved from MacKaye’s original vision of rustic, free camp communities in the mountains. But it is no less spiritual and powerful.

###

This ran in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s Living & Arts section, Oct. 11, 2021

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Louellen Wright Murray, 1951-2021

This tradition of eulogies at Tate Annual Meetings has a certain shape. But no passing of those we love can really fit a pattern. The passing of my cousin Louellen Murray is especially hard and uncontainable. It comes way too soon. We are devastated.

I am humbled that Tim has allowed me to read the beautiful words he has written. Before I do that, I want to say a few personal words.

Louellen was more than just a first cousin to me. She occupied a special generational space that I shared – we’re both second children of the two elder Wright children, Whittier and Emily. Both of us were born in 1951, both graduated from Atlanta high schools in 1969. We’re both lovers of poetry, of irony, of family history and beautiful things in an imperfect world. We have both been accused of getting off easy from whatever difficulties our siblings had with our parents – the “golden” ones. And now, shockingly, she is gone, and I am here, remembering her a lot as I turn 70.

The times I spent in conversation with her were all too few, but I remember them vividly – at Tate as children, as teenagers when she had a horse at Tate named Prufrock, as hippies, us talking in the little ruined cottage behind their house on 17th Street in Ansley Park, or on a lovely walk the two of us took around the Murray paradise in Lake Forest, Illinois, called Shadow Pond, and around its surrounding marshes. She seemed like the Whittier and the Wright inside of me – the quiet observer and writer – New England classy, East Tennessee tough. In me, this is jumbled up with the noisy and nosy Cumming thing. With Louellen, that Whittier and Wright style, along with her mother Sena’s quiet genius, was in its purest, beautiful quintessence.

I’ll read a few passages she wrote, to show what I mean.

Reading her book about the 12-acre estate in Lake Forest that she and Tim rescued from long neglect – she called it a “Renaissance” – is like dipping into articles in the New Yorker magazine from the 1950s. Sassy but understated, fact-checked and fascinating.

“I’m not sure when the old oak died,” she begins her book on Shadow Pond. “It wasn’t our fault. But unless something gets killed on the first page of a book, Tim Murray will not read any further. So impetus is born. The dead tree, its massively useless limbs overhanging the driveway, had to be cut down. The trunk was rendered into lengths ten feet long and four feet thick. I could imagine thick slices of the trunk being used as tables or benches, or at the very least, filleted into steppers and places throughout the woods to create paths. But professional foresters are not known for their fine tuning abilities. The trunk sections were hauled off. The limbs were fed to the chipper. All that remained was a pile of dusty wood chips which eventually scattered in the wind.”

And this, from her memories of the Tate “Sanctuary” that Whittier expanded from a garage behind the original Wright house that our great grandmother built (which burned down in 1970). The back house was originally for Whittier and Bill Emerson to hold their outrageous bull sessions before a blazing fire.

“We moved into the Sanctuary in the late 1950s. Papa and Mama slept on a foldout sofa bed in front of the fire. We ‘pigmies’ shared the brown bedroom with whatever insects still clung to us after a day in the woods.

“In the mid-1960s, a two-story wing of bedrooms was added with windows on three sides. Our room was on the ground floor, paved in flagstone, and the walls were unstained pine paneling. The dark whorls in the wood grain looked like faces, mostly owls, and became as familiar as old friends.

“Papa and Mama took the bedroom above us. The staircase, which was wood, reverberated with every step they took and with every toe on every paw of every dog that scratched a flea up there. They had a rug on the floor, but it was impossible to climb the stairs without being heard below.”

Now I’d like to read from what Tim wrote and sent me:

Louellen and I first met 45 years ago.  She was living at home after college and I was living as a bachelor working at the Trust Company Bank in Atlanta.  By divine luck, we were introduced to each other during coinciding sporting weekends at Hilton Head Island.  I was there with my bank friends to play golf, and Louellen was there with friends to play tennis.  The two groups had overlapping connections from Atlanta and socialized together in the afternoons and evenings.   Although I didn’t get to spend all that much time with Louellen during that trip, I was smitten by her beauty and charm and by the fact that she was the first girl that I had met who could throw a Frisbee!

After returning from Hilton Head, I talked my banker friend Frank into committing what was probably a crime – to research the Trust Company bank records to find out Louellen’s phone number (given that her father was a bank customer).  I called her up, we dated for two months and then I went back to business school in Chicago.  We had a long distance romance for a year (keeping Delta Airlines and AT&T in business) and were married at St Philip’s Church in Atlanta on June 19, 1976 – 45 years ago.

To capture Louellen’s essence in a few words is pretty impossible.  She was a like a priceless work of art – multifaceted, multidimensional – not perfect – but extraordinarily complex and beautiful.  I would like to share just some of the attributes that help to describe her:

  • She thrived on projects.  No matter what the task or topic, she put her heart and soul into her interests.  Always wanted to “just do it”, not just think about it.  She definitely had a bit of “never in error, but never in doubt” — didn’t respond well to authority — and probably bent a few rules over time in pursuit of her passions.  But…

She created, loved and nurtured beautiful things.  First on her list were of course our three children, Patrick, Philip and Eleanor.  And more recently includes our two daughters-in-law, Anna and Ronnie, and our three granddaughters, Coral, Iris and Sylvie.

  • She loved animals and cherished the various dogs that we had over time in our family.
  • She created masterpieces of the various apartments and houses that we shared together over time.  Her gardens received broad acclaim.
  • She was a great athlete, competing on numerous tennis and platform tennis teams over time.  Rather than sitting down after a full day of activity, our regular cocktail hour included spirited games of ping pong.  (I will not divulge who won more often!)
  • She was a Master Gardener (as certified by the Garden Club of America), a National Garden Show judge, a member of the National Society of Colonial Dames, a member of the Women’s Board of the Chicago Botanic Garden, a member of the Kenilworth and Lake Forest, Illinois garden clubs and a dedicated volunteer tending to the Chicago Botanic Garden’s renown bonsai tree collection.
  • She had numerous friends and acquaintances but didn’t “suffer fools lightly” and could have a pretty sharp wit.  The stacks of get well and condolences cards and letters that we have received are testimony to the breadth of her impact on so many people.
  • She loved Tate and tried to contribute, long distance, to Tate-related issues, including discussions and committees.  She and our children participated in a number of Joe Cumming’s Annual Meeting plays.  She thrived on the Tate environment.
  • She loved writing.  Among her essays and other written works, she produced a major rewrite of her father’s book – “TATE:  The First Sixty Years”.  Show.  I have about a dozen copies of the book at our house which I am happy to share.

In summary, I would like to thank my children for their support and comfort during Louellen’s final days. 

Louellen was my wife, my soulmate, and my best friend.  I miss her desperately.  Thank you for keeping her in your thoughts and prayers.

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What’s a Southern Gentleman Today?

Washington and Lee’s former SAE House, a lofty white plantation-style mansion on E. Washington Street in Lexington, Va., has stood nearly empty for seven years now. That’s because the chapter was suspended by the national fraternity and by the university after a fatal drunken driving accident in late 2013. The chapter, founded in 1867, has remained “inactive” since the suspensions.

Former SAE house, W&L

The behavior of the driver in the car accident seemed emblematic of the privileged decadence of Greek culture that has come under scrutiny at W&L. Nicholas Perry Hansel, from a wealthy New Orleans family, was driving 10 other W&L students home from a party where his Sigma Alpha Epsilon brothers rented a house in the country. He was drunk and so were most of the others piled into the SUV without seatbelts. The car left the road, struck a tree stump and overturned. One female student from Connecticut was killed, and two others seriously injured. One of the injured was in a class I was teaching then.

Nick, the driver, was somehow able, for a while, to get a judge to seal the agreement reached between his lawyers and the Commonwealth’s Attorney. Later, when he was serving a three-year sentence for manslaughter, he was able to get special privileges to come and go from the county jail, where he was somehow allowed to stay instead of in a state penitentiary. As it turned out, the jailer had received political donations of a few thousand dollars and gifts from Nick’s parents and friends. That was just part of the corruption that recently resulted in the jailer being sentenced to more than four years in prison.

I don’t know if SAE is any worse than other fraternities when it comes to bad behavior. I’ve heard that female students at the University of the South at Sewanee say SAE stands for “sexual assault expected.”

Can it be that my father, as I learned just before he died recently at 94, was an SAE at Sewanee? He was not anybody’s idea of a frat boy. He was a poet, a national journalist, a teacher with boyish excitement for what he taught, a jazzman, and someone who seemed instinctively kind, even courtly, to anyone he was with, any race, any age, any caste. Like the novelist Walker Percy, an SAE at Chapel Hill and author of “The Last Gentleman,” my father was a really, really true gentleman.

His death has brought to me a musing curiosity about that kindness, that courtliness. I want to know how much of it came from his father, or his father’s father, or that gentleman’s father, “The Major” or that man’s father, Henry. They were all gentlemen in some old Deep South sense that I associate with vellum-bound books in their private libraries on “well-born” Romans, like those from Plutarch’s Lives.

A few years ago at W&L, some alumni spoke at the ribbon-cutting of a neo-gothic mansion that an anonymous giver had restored and donated to the university. The men reminisced about when they were students in the 1960s and invited to have Sunday tea with a legendary dean who lived there. One of these alumni was an SAE, and he recalled with some irony how being an SAE meant memorizing a sort of mission statement called “The True Gentleman.”

I just looked up that statement online. The True Gentleman “does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements.” He “speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy” and his “deed follows his word.”

Some of the phrases, in the rhetoric taught in Southern universities in the 1890s, seemed to espouse values held by the line of gentlemen that produced my father’s kindness and decency. None of them were in business or sales. Before my father, they all were attorneys, officers of the court, “Esquires,” serving on boards for civic progress and in the Democratic Party of Augusta, Georgia. My father’s father would recite eccentric aphorisms of a privileged lifestyle around those values. “A gentleman does not count his change,” and “A gentleman should die in debt to his tailor.” He wore silk ascots at home, smoked a pipe, and walked on an artificial leg hidden in his well-tailored, ironed and cuffed trousers.

The True Gentleman is one who has “an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies.” It helps to have enough money, unmentioned of course, for a fine but not ostentatious wardrobe, and a loyal servant. The True Gentleman “appears well in any company.”

I couldn’t name it, but there was something rotten in the statement. It wasn’t so much the “acute sense of propriety” or the secret wealth needed to keep up appearances. It was, rather, an acceptance of hierarchy that repulsed me. In a previous world of rigid hierarchy, I suppose it was better, more “gentlemanly,” to act humble and stay silent about one’s higher position than to flaunt it. But silence is no virtue when it is at peace with this kind of ranking: the True Gentleman “does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity.”

Who wrote this? A little more online research revealed that it was a Bridgewater College graduate of 1899 named John Walter Wayland, who went on to get a Ph.D. at the University of Virginia and teach history at a variety of Southern universities. But he didn’t write it for SAE. Rather, it was the winning essay in a contest in 1899, appeared in the Baltimore Sun, then fell into obscurity.

It was later discovered by a truly odious political figure from Alabama, Walter Burgwyn Jones. Jones, described in an SAE website as a former “Eminent Supreme Archon” of the fraternity, discovered “The True Gentleman” somewhere, printed it in the Baptist newsletter he edited, and sent it on to the SAE leadership. It became something every SAE had to memorize, a kind of hazing of new members.

I remember that name, Judge Walter B. Jones. He was the Alabama judge who tried to force the state’s NAACP to reveal its membership in 1956 (knowing that every disclosed member would lose his or her job as a result, if not suffer violence). And in a libel suit designed to keep the New York Times from covering the Civil Rights movement, Judge Jones steered the case into his own courtroom by finding the Times did business in Alabama because it hired an Alabama lawyer to defend itself. The Times was doomed to lose in Jones’s courtroom. I was interested to find this same Judge Jones who was involved in these two famous cases was also behind reviving “The True Gentleman.” Both cases were unanimously overturned by two of the most historic decisions of the U.S. Supreme Court – one assuring the privacy of membership in a protest organization under “freedom of assembly” and the other protecting the press from libel suits by public officials in the absence of malice. Judge Jones was a flamboyant white supremacist and nostalgic for the Confederacy.

For me, knowing the connection with Judge Jones has exposed what “The True Gentleman” was really about, once the old hierarchy began to crumble.

What is left of the inheritance my father gave to me and my brothers and sister for being decent and “gentle” human beings? I treasure it, whatever it is. It makes me weep in love to read now the legalese my father signed in his Will more than 20 years ago, appointing me “as successor Executor or Trustee” in hope for “an amicable division of said property.” I recently watched a video of a 1984 lecture he gave on journalism and poetry, and felt weepy again when he spoke of me – as if to me from beyond his mortality – as having “wings of his own.” I have a legacy, and it doesn’t require memorizing a fraternity saying.

Originally published in “Like the Dew.”

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Bearing witness in Minneapolis

“It’s been nights I stayed up apologizing and apologizing to George Floyd for not doing more and not physically interacting and not saving his life.”

    –Darnella Frazier, who at age 17 made the video of Officer Derek Chauvin choking George Floyd to death in a nine-minute vice between the officer’s knee and a sidewalk in Minneapolis.

Ms. Frazier, as a witness in the Chauvin murder trial, was describing what journalists sometimes experience as a moral hazard of their work. Reporters and photojournalists may be present when terrible things are happening. How far do they go to maintain their detachment so that they can do their jobs, to bear witness? At what point do they try to intervene, to help, or simply protect themselves from the physical or emotional trauma that radiates from violent news?

Flip Schulke, a photographer with Life magazine, faced that dilemma in 1965 when he was shooting pictures of the voting-rights protests in Selma, Alabama, in 1965. This was before the infamous bridge-crossing of “Bloody Sunday” that the whole world saw on TV. He watched as Sheriff Jim Clark’s posse of deputized bullies shoved children to the ground. He let his camera go and put himself between the white men and the young black protestors. This is reported in The Race Beat, by Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff.

Schulke remembered what Martin Luther King Jr. told him later, hearing about this. King said Schulke should have continued taking pictures. It was his duty. “The world doesn’t know this happened, because you didn’t photograph it,” the photographer recalled King telling him. “I’m not being cold-blooded about it,” King reportedly said, “but it is so important for you to take a picture of us getting beaten up than for you to be another person joining the fray.”

Now, just about everybody has a video camera on their cellphones and police officers have body cams. The Black experience of bad confrontations with police can now be seen, as it was on the internet around the world before sundown of May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis. That changed the world, thanks in large part to Darnella Frazier, whose sworn testimony helped convict Officer Chauvin of all three charges against him yesterday.

But besides the justice system finally seeming to work in such a case, the daily press also did its job, its duty. Even before the video had gone viral, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune’s police reporter, Libor Jany, was peeling back layers of facts. While his newsroom was mobilizing, he was tweeting his reporting. He filed his first story for the newspaper’s webpage at 3:30 a.m. the next day, a story that would be updated 115 times online before a full package of stories appeared in the newspaper on May 27.

That edition of the Star-Tribune offered clear and panoramic coverage of the incident, its social-media dimension, the emotional and historical background of other unjustified police killings, next-day fiery protests and police confrontations. All of this was done with reporters threated by a pandemic and manhandled by police in riot gear. Given the scant information available in the beginning, and the legal and political attention paid to this outbreak of news over the next year, it is remarkable how thorough and factually solid that initial coverage still stands from the first 36 hours. This was deadline reporting at its best. Let’s remember the role of the press too.

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Still We Rise

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I rise.

Maya Angelou’s well-known poem, “Still I Rise,” is a swaggering song of pride and joy in the face of a past rooted in pain, “the nights of terror and fear.” Like the hymn by James Weldon Johnson, “Lift Every Voice,” which is called “The Black National Anthem,” Angelou’s poem declares a strength and triumph in being a black woman yet fully aware of history’s violent degradation, the legacy of generational trauma. The line that Johnson’s brother set to music in 1899, “We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,” recalls nothing so much as Confederate Lt. Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest’s report on the hundreds of black Union soldiers who had surrendered at Fort Pillow, Tenn., when this former slave-trader ordered them all slaughtered. The Mississippi River ran red with their blood, wrote Forrest (later founder of the KKK), daring the North to use black soldiers again.

An earlier poem that Angelou may have drawn on for the phrase “still I rise” comes from the white Quaker abolitionist John Greenleaf Whittier. The theme in this poem is different. It’s that the chains thrown off by Emancipation freed both black and white from a curse. During Reconstruction, young black students in a classroom in the early days of Atlanta University represented to Whittier the transformation of enslaved Man into the image of God.

Behold!—the dumb lips speaking

The blind eyes seeing!

Bones of the Prophet’s vision

Warmed into being!

The poem is called “Howard at Atlanta,” and there’s an interesting story behind it. The story is that General Oliver Otis Howard, head of the Freedman’s Bureau, was in that classroom at Atlanta University questioning the students. Howard had fought for the Union in many of the major battles of the Civil War, including the Battle of Atlanta, and had lost his right arm at the Battle of Seven Pines in Virginia. He asked the students what he should tell the youth up north about the freed slaves in the South. A young lad named Richard R. Wright, who had been freed at age 10, stood up and said to Howard, “Tell them, we’re rising.” This same Richard Wright later started a newspaper in his native Cuthbert, Ga., and moved that publication to Augusta. In 1880, he founded the first public high school for blacks in Augusta, Ware High School. This was the school that was later shut down by the white Richmond County Board of Education, leading to the lawsuit Cumming v. Board of Education of Richmond County, which the U.S. Supreme Court decided in 1899 by ruling, 9-0, that the county had no obligation to provide secondary education for blacks. (The plaintiff “Cumming” was black, but it’s also the name of my ancestors, a prominent family in Augusta in the 19th century.) Wright, discouraged in his career as educator in Augusta, moved to Savannah to become president of Georgia State Industrial College for Colored Youths (today, Savannah State University), which he served for 30 years.

Whittier, inspired by the scene of young Richard Wright addressing Gen. Howard, writes:

O black boy of Atlanta!

But half was spoken:

The slave’s chain and the master’s

Alike are broken.

The one curse of the races

Held both in tether:

They are rising,–all are rising,

The black and white together!

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King’s crusade when objective journalists took sides

This ran as an op-ed in The Roanoke Times on Jan. 18, Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

On Dec. 22, 1961, Martin Luther King Jr. composed a two-page, single-spaced typed letter to my father, the Newsweek bureau chief in Atlanta at the time.

I recovered a copy of this letter going through some of Joe Cumming’s files after he died on Nov. 9, age 94, in an assisted living facility near Atlanta. King’s words in the letter were not a surprise to me. As my father wrote, the letter was “almost in a class with the Birmingham jail letter—clear, compassionate, logical, un-angry.”

Joe Cumming, right, with the Rev. Ralph Abernathy, center

It was, rather, my father’s letter about that King letter that caught my attention. What he said, essentially, is that everybody in the national news media in 1961, “any editor, reporter or really employee of Newsweek—liberal or conservative,” recognized the moral rightness of King’s crusade.

The journalists covering this great story had taken sides. And yet they considered their work to be professional, fact-based, “objective,” a word that still had currency then. As a media historian, I have studied this seeming paradox of a moral shift in the “objective” coverage of the Civil Rights movement, especially coverage by white Southern men like my father reporting for a national audience. Most white Southerners considered them traitors.

King recognized them as allies, but warily. In fact, the letter he wrote was a complaint about something in the political gossip page of Newsweek called “Periscope,” from Dec. 11, 1961. The item obviously wasn’t based on the fact-gathering and eye-witness files that my father’s Newsweek bureau teletyped to New York throughout the 1960s.

My father didn’t see the letter until 1988, when a researcher at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Papers Project at Stanford University sent him a copy and some questions.

Cumming said he certainly would have remembered getting such a letter. “It would have been a major landmark for me to have heard from this man who was emerging globally as the leader of the civil rights movement, a man with a new idea—non-violence—who had figured dramatically in the election of John Kennedy, etc.”

My father wondered if this researcher was aware of a far more important relationship between King and the press, especially Southern white reporters like himself. “We were all clear that our journalistic objectivity recognized the rightness of King’s goals,” he wrote. “It was a given to us covering the story that segregation by law and custom as practiced in the South and perpetuated by politicians who demagogued on the emotions of fear, was wrong, cruel, inhumane and unconstitutional.”

This was not revisionist history. Something happened in early 1960 that galvanized the Black struggle in the South, and changed the consciousness of reporters covering it.  By the end of 1961, this new energy was wearing King out. He was being pushed from behind by his fame, giving speeches and interviews from London to Seattle until hospital tests led to two days of rest.

But in front of him, he was chasing an uprising of Black students who were taking the Movement into new radiance. With fearless younger leadership inspired by King, Gandhi and a new understanding of Christian love, these Southern students were filling jails with their bodies and their freedom songs.

King had followed, not led, them into jail, in Georgia’s frightening Reidsville state prison in 1960 and then in December 1961 for 48 hours, into a jail in Americus, Ga. His quick release from that jail, in a negotiated deal that required him to leave town, was seen as King’s greatest failure at that point. He had groggily promised from behind bars that he would not accept bond, that he expected to spend Christmas in jail and hoped thousands would join him. Instead, he had left jail and the area by Dec. 18. The liberal New York Herald Tribune called it “a devastating loss of face” for King. The international press was annoyed to have arrived in Albany, Ga., only to find their story gone flat.

But reporters who had been on the story longer were experiencing a kind of awakening. Pat Watters, a reporter with the Atlanta Journal, was overwhelmed by the clapping, singing and spontaneous joy in the mass meetings of those early days in Albany, Ga. He would later describe that haunting energy of the movement as something that couldn’t be fully conveyed in newspapers because it was outside of the culture, an “extra-cultural” breakthrough.

The perspective of black reporters was missing, as my father’s letter to the King researcher acknowledges. But that slowly changed in the 1960s.

December 1961 was a low point for King. His letter to my father was never sent, or published, though a similar letter from King aimed at the Nashville Tennessean appears in Vol. VII of the King papers. But it was a high point for journalists covering the movement, that rare synthesis of “objectivity” with an epic moral quality that we could use today.

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‘Times a-Wasting’: A Life

Avis Waring, who served in Occupied Japan and wrote economic reports for the CIA, died Monday (Jan. 11) of complications from Covid-19 at the Borden Center, Lexington, Va. The illness had been diagnosed on her 100th birthday two weeks earlier.

Avis in Narnia (through the wardrobe at the Bellfry)

An Oregon native with a master’s degree in economics from Cambridge University, Waring had moved from Florida to Lexington in 2010 to be near her daughter Libby Waring Cumming.

Reflecting in a 2008 memoir on all she had accomplished in life, she credited the work ethic taught by her parents in Oregon, especially during the Great Depression. Two of her mother’s sayings were “Time’s a-wasting” and “If you have a job to do, jump right in and do it,” Waring wrote.

“And she also believed and impressed on me that a woman should not marry until she had the travels and education she wanted and needed to support herself and the children in case anything happened to her husband.”

Avis Bessie Pick Waring was born Dec. 29, 1920, in an eastern Oregon farmhouse, the second of eight children of William M. and Sarah Bessie Pick. She was married to Ronald F. Waring for 50 years until his death in 2002.

With the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor, Avis Pick’s life changed. She was transferring from Willamette University to the University of Washington with plans to pursue library science. After Dec. 7, 1941, she jumped right into studying the Japanese language instead. Professors who were Japanese emigrés were sent to internment camps, so her teachers were their replacements.

During the war, Avis became a Navy officer with the WAVES in Washington D.C. While she and her WAVES friends spent time translating flight manuals of Japanese war planes, a few decided to learn to fly. Together they bought a plane, took lessons, and enjoyed flying in their spare time.

She spent three years in Occupied Japan with the U.S. government. In 1951, after two years of studies at Cambridge and grand tours of Europe, she returned to Oregon and married Ron Waring. They spent two years in Guatemala, both working various jobs. Avis taught English and worked for the Bank of Guatemala, writing reports on agriculture and trade.

It was an interesting subject at that time, she wrote, because the Communist government was confiscating the privately-owned banana, coffee, and wheat plantations to give the land to the peasants. “I was able to show that the production and exports were declining, although the cause of the decline at that point could have been partially due to turmoil and uncertainty in the countryside.”

They left Guatemala in May 1954 with their three-month-old daughter, Rhonda, during street riots as the Communist government was being overthrown.

Avis and Ron Waring moved to Washington D.C. in 1955 and both worked for the federal government until reaching retirement age in the late 1970s. As an agricultural analyst at the CIA, Avis traveled widely, under “State Department” cover, and wrote economic reports on countries of vital U.S. interest, such as China, India and Brazil. Her report on the food grain outlook in India in 1974 prompted then-U.S. ambassador to India Daniel Patrick Moynihan to write CIA director William Colby of his “total admiration” for the study. “Underlings keep stealing my copy,” Moynihan wrote.

Under high pressure and short deadlines, she was diverted from her field of agricultural economy at one point during the Vietnam War to identify transportation routes the Vietcong used to move arms.

In 1980, the Warings moved to Merritt Island, Fla., for new careers that lasted another 20 years. Avis helped Ron develop a small subdivision, laying out a Waring Way and its cul de sacs, and became a successful Realtor. Ron died Jan. 20, 2002.

Avis moved to into an independent living apartment at Kendal in 2010. She had been at Borden for the past two years.

She was a generous benefactor to her colleges—Willamette University and Newnham College (Cambridge University)—and in Lexington, to Grace Episcopal Church and two departments at Washington and Lee University. The Waring-Alnutt Award is given yearly for excellence in editing to a journalism graduate (in memory of Ron Waring) and the Avis P. Waring Scholarship is awarded to a physics and engineering student for connecting studies with service or pre-professional experience.

Avis made friends wherever she lived and kept in touch with them across the years. She traveled light, but treasured beautiful souvenirs of her world-traveling life, such as a 1932 silk-covered anthology of Japanese haiku. A poem in it by Matsuo Basho seems to evoke her experience of both Tokyo and Washington D.C. in April, “Ah! The cherry-blossoms/ Have brought many memories back.”

She was the last of the eight Pick children to survive. She leaves two daughters, Rhonda (Don) Judson, of Salem, Ore., and Elizabeth “Libby” (Doug) Cumming of Lexington; five grandchildren, Don Jr. (Kimberly) and Chris (Lisa) Judson, and Daniel, William (Alyssa) and Sarah Rose Cumming; and six great-grandchildren, Claudia, Andy, Ian, Penelope and Westley Judson, and Avis Magnolia Cumming.

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Indivisible Freedom: The Transnational Experience of South African Nieman Fellows

Abstract: For 54 years, the Nieman Foundation of Harvard University included one or two top journalists from South Africa among its dozen or more fellows each year. To investigate the impact of this exchange as an experiment in transnational journalism, the researcher sent questionnaires to all 39 South African alumni who could be reached. Eleven returned the survey with their answers. Research into the impact of this program seems especially valuable given the dramatic transformations that occurred in South Africa over these years, and ironically, the fact that the “success” of those changes has now ended South Africa’s special status that underwrote the program sending a Nieman fellow to Harvard each year.

Presented at the inaugural conference on Transnational Journalism History at Augusta University, March 4-5, 2016. This is the only place it has been published.

“The fact that freedom is indivisible always came out strongly at the Nieman Foundation.”
Tony Heard, Cape Times editor; Nieman Fellow,1987-88

By the spring of 1986, the worldwide movement against apartheid in South Africa had spread to American university campuses. In Harvard Yard, students were occupying a cardboard and scrap-wood shanty town and demanding that investments in companies doing business in South Africa be purged from the university’s very large endowment. Richard Steyn routinely walked by that shanty town between classes. Steyn was more than 20 years older than most of the other students, having been a lawyer in South Africa, then editor for 12 years at the Natal Witness, South Africa’s oldest continuously published daily. He was a student at Harvard that year under the blessings of the Nieman Foundation, a renowned program that gives about a dozen carefully selected journalists a subsidized nine-month break to challenge their intellectual curiosities at Harvard and to bond with one another around the Walter Lippmann House.[1] In South Africa, Steyn was known as an independent editor whose paper was consistently critical of the ruling white government’s apartheid policies. Looking back on his year with other Nieman Fellows, he likes to think he helped the American journalists understand that not all white South Africans were unreconstructed bigots. He and his wife formed friendships then that remain today. Their three children spent a year in Cambridge public schools. Back in 1986, he might well have viewed Harvard-based perspectives about South Africa as naïve or ill-informed.  But today, he says the people he met helped change his mind. “I was able to interact with and gauge the opinions of a wide variety of informed and concerned people, some of whom strongly influenced my thinking on such issues as disinvestment and the cultural and academic boycott.”[2] 

Since the Fall of 1960, 60 South African journalists have been selected and funded to spend an academic year as a Nieman Fellow. (See the list in Appendix 1 at the end of this paper.) Most years saw one South African in the program, generally alternating between an Anglo-South African, an Afrikaner, and a black South African. Sometimes there were two at once, such as when banned editor Donald Woods joined John Seakalala Mojapelo at Harvard after smuggling a book manuscript out of South Africa in a dramatic nighttime escape in disguise from his police-guarded home in 1977. (Woods is played by Kevin Kline in the movie about his friendship with Black Consciousness leader Steven Biko, “Cry Freedom,” which dramatizes Woods’ escape from South Africa.)[3] In 1987-88 and 1988-89, the two years of intense police violence and township chaos before apartheid was negotiated out of existence, there were four South African Niemans, including Cape Times editor Anthony Heard and black labor reporter Joe Thloloe, who had been banned by the government under apartheid and today is ombudsman for the Press Council of South Africa. In 1987, Heard was facing prosecution under South Africa’s security laws for publishing an interview with banned exiled black leader Oliver Tambo. He received a call out of the blue from Nieman curator Howard Simons, who had managed to find an independent donor to bring Heard to Harvard for a year.[4]

The South African Nieman Fellows were originally sponsored by the United States-South Africa Leader Exchange Program, a private non-governmental foundation that created exchanges of various kinds of professionals for face-to-face discussions to improve lines of communication between the two countries.[5] In time, the selection and funding was transferred to the Nieman Society of Southern Africa, a registered non-profit organization that raises funds and meets yearly to elect a committee. The Nieman Society committee invited applications yearly, drew up a short list of six and then selected three candidates in order of preference. These were forwarded each spring to the Nieman Foundation in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the Foundation’s selection committee generally named the Nieman Society of Southern Africa’s top choice. It cost the Nieman Society about $75,000 to support a South African Nieman Fellow, according to Tim du Plessis, a former Nieman Fellow, leader of the Society, and retired head of the Afrikaner newspapers under Media24. This year, the Nieman Society lost its permanent slot in the fellowship because, du Plessis says, South Africa’s problems were no longer seen as unique; so for the first time in 55 years, the current Nieman class has no South African.[6]

The Nieman Foundation has accepted international fellows from every corner of the globe, sponsored by various regional foundations, at least since 1955-56. It seems obvious that this program qualifies as a lively site of transnational journalism worth studying as such.[7] Kevin Grieves’ pioneering work on transnational journalism suggests that traditional nation-bound routines and perspectives of journalism are making adjustments to 21st century realities. Among these realities, in the post-Cold War era, are new media, globalization, faster and easier air travel, and the strengthening of trans-border jurisdictions like the European Union. Grieves argues that this is happening not only across and near literal borders, but also across symbolic borders of ideology and history. We are seeing in myriad ways the breakdown of “tensions between the familiar and the exotic” in the news media.[8]

In the case of “foreign” Niemans, many boundaries of history, culture, and professional norms have been crossed by a small but potent number of journalists. For nine months, the international Nieman Fellows are surrounded by top American journalists, American media, Ivy League American students, and Harvard professors, all of this at America’s oldest and wealthiest university.[9] The foreign journalists, to be selected for these prized and limited slots, are likely to have already distinguished themselves in some way by their courage, creativity, or impact. When they return to their news organizations, which had allowed them to go with the understanding that they will return, the re-energizing and cachet of having been a Nieman is likely to extend that American experience into their home media culture. Inversely, they are expected to influence American Niemans with their “foreign” perspectives on journalism. Typically, in the early years, the international journalists were less engaged in group discussions, recalled Louis Lyons, curator from 1939 to 1964.[10]

The South African Niemans, starting in the year of the Sharpeville massacre of March 1960, seemed to have had a special presence. They all spoke English, if sometimes as a second language, and they came from a country where racial injustice and suppression of press freedoms made for galvanizing conversations across the borderline of experience. Aggrey Klaaste, Nieman class of ’80, had been an anti-apartheid activist writer for the celebrated black magazine Drum and the black newspaper the World, and had spent nine months in jail for running afoul of the security laws. Zwelakhe Sisulu, Nieman class of ’85 and son of two legendary black leaders of Nelson Mandela’s generation, had led a year-long strike in 1980 for fair wages for black journalists. Most of these Niemans returned to positions of influence as editors, reporters, and TV journalists, before and after apartheid. As a group, they spanned the history of one of the most dramatic political transformations in modern times.[11]

My purpose in this paper is to begin to probe the nature of the South African Nieman Fellowship as an experiment in transnational journalism. Harvard is not alone is conducting such an experiment. Academic-year, mid-career fellowships for journalists have been offered at Stanford since 1966, University of Michigan since 1973, and Columbia, Yale, and other campuses since then. Stanford accepts international fellows and Michigan reserves six international slots a year.[12] I am focusing on the Nieman Fellowship and South African journalists because of the historical weight and clear focus of that program. South Africa, for decades a closed and increasingly isolated country, was selected by the U.S.-S.A. Leader Exchange Program on the theory that improved communication among professionals could help encourage progressive transformation for South Africa.[13] While the role of the press and scope of the nonviolent democratic transformation in South Africa during the last 55 years is nothing short of epic, it would be impossible to quantify the role that the Nieman Fellows played, much less the specific influence of their Harvard year. However, to publish a record of who these Fellows were and to begin hearing their perspective on the program’s transnational effects, I offer here a roll call and the testimonies of 11 out of the surviving 46.

Harvard, like most of the older private universities on the East Coast, had long looked down on journalism as “nothing but the gift of gab,” as the Business School dean told Louis Lyons when Lyons was interviewing him for The Boston Globe in the 1920s. But then in 1937 Harvard received an unsought gift of $1.35 million from the widow of the late founder and publisher of the Milwaukee Journal, Lucius W. Nieman. The donation had no strings attached except “to promote and elevate standards of journalism in the United States and educate people deemed especially qualified for journalism.” The money was accepted.[14] Harvard’s President James B. Conant called it a “dubious experiment,” and left it to Walter Lippmann and poet Archibald MacLeish to get the program off the ground in 1938. Would hard-bitten, fast-writing, cynical journalists find the rarified atmosphere of Harvard a joke? MacLeish, who served as the first curator in 1938-39 (Lyons was a Fellow in that first class), recalled later that the program instead transformed and enlarged the Fellows. “They haven’t just pulled in knowledge,” he wrote in 1978. “They are bigger than they were.”[15] Over the years, Nieman alumni left their mark on journalism, politics, and history. Anthony Lewis, already a Harvard graduate and former New York Times reporter when he became a Nieman Fellow in 1956, spent most of his Nieman year studying law to gather knowledge that would undergird his subsequent years as a twice-Pultizer-winning Times columnist, writer of books on Constitutional law, and in his final decades, one of the favorite professors of other Niemans who wandered into classes at the Law School.  The class of ’59 included Harold Hayes, who helped invent the New Journalism movement as editor of Esquire magazine in the 1960s; Howard Simons, who would later lead the coverage of Nixon’s Watergate scandal as managing editor of The Washington Post (and who led the Nieman Foundation as curator from 1984-89),[16] and John Seigenthaler, founding editorial director of USA Today who in 1961 was knocked unconscious in Montgomery as a Justice Department official monitoring the Freedom Riders.[17] The class of ’62, in which the white South African economics editor of Die Burger, Sebastian Kleu, would begin studies that eventually lead to a doctorate in economics from Harvard Business School, also included two Southerners known for their coverage of  the Civil Rights drama for national publications, Gene Roberts and Jack Nelson.[18] Today, nearly 1,500 Nieman Fellows have gone through the program, at least 35 percent of them international fellows.[19]

The impressions felt, and left, by the South African Fellows can be seen across decades of the written record. Allister Sparks, a fifth-generation South African and editor of The Rand Daily Mail when it helped bring down Prime Minister John Vorster in 1978, was a Nieman Fellow in 1962 when he read W.J. Cash’s soaring, bitter 1941 history The Mind of the South. Since then, he had wanted to write a book “that might give the same kind of insights into South Africa that it gave me [at Harvard] into the psyche of the American South.” He wrote this in the “Author’s Note” of his 1990 history The Mind of South Africa, which turned out to be the first of a trilogy of books that connected the country’s history to its non-violent revolution, Tomorrow is Another Country, and to its current state, Beyond the Miracle.[20] Other impressions streak like claw marks across the program’s history. The first year, when Aubrey Sussens, a white reporter of the Rand Daily Mail, was selected by the US-SALEP, a 23-year-old black writer for the magazine Drum, Lewis Nkosi, wrote the Nieman Foundation for information. Lyons helped him join Sussens by finding alternative funding from another U.S.-South Africa exchange, the Farfield Foundation.Having published scathing criticism of the ruling party’s police tactics, Nkosi waited four months for a passport that never came, then angrily accepted a one-way exit visa, leaving in November for an exile that would last four decades. Nkosi’s output as a writer in those years was ambitious, literary, and varied, including an award-winning novel in 1983. He died in 2010. The next black South African Nieman, Drum writer and literary magazine editor Nataniel Nakasa, applied in 1964 with support from prominent South African writer Nadine Gordimer. He also was sponsored by the Farfield Foundation, and was also forced to take an exit visa from the South African government instead of a passport. By the end of his year at Harvard, Nakasa had retreated into a melancholy isolation, which he told Gordimer he feared ran in his family. Despairing of his future, he visited the Manhattan apartment of the Farfield Foundation’s executive director, who had assured him of the foundation’s continued financing. Nakasa committed suicide on July 14 during that visit by leaping from the seven-story apartment building.[21] His remains were returned to South Africa in 2014, thanks to the effort of the South African National Editors Forum and the Nieman Society. In 1988, Hennie van Deventer, a Nieman fellow who chaired the country’s Newspaper Press Union, successfully proposed an annual award called the Nat Nakasa Award for Media Integrity.[22]

How It Changed Them

For the research presented here, I contacted the Nieman Foundation and former curator Bob Giles. They helped put me in touch with Tim du Plessis of the Nieman Foundation of Southern Africa, who in turn agreed to distribute a questionnaire to the 39 surviving South African Nieman alumni whose email addresses were known. (The other seven listed survivors had no known email or Twitter account.) The questionnaire I created consisted of five questions. (See Appendix 2 at the end of this paper.) Eleven questionnaires were returned within two weeks (a 28.2 % reply rate), with virtually every question answered in a full paragraph or more. The following sections cite and summarize those responses as qualitative findings organized by themes.

The practice of journalism in South Africa has always been deeply divided by the color line. Under apartheid, black reporters and the publications they wrote for identified with the struggle against the white minority’s police state. Having little faith in the ideal of objectivity and balance, these journalists from the 1950s through the 1980s experimented with literary nonfiction and reported from the perspective of liberation politics. For Percy Qoboza, spending 1975-76 as a Nieman Fellow stirred him deeply. “The thing that scared me most during my Cambridge year was the fact that I had accepted injustice and discrimination as ‘part and parcel of our traditional way of life.’ After my year, the things I had accepted made me angry.”[23] Mathatha Tsedu, who began reporting in 1978 for the black newspaper that became the Sowetan, said he had always been “an active participant in the struggle against apartheid colonialism.” For him, a new challenge emerged after the ANC (African National Party) came to power, and after he returned from his Nieman year in 1997. His former comrades in the trenches were now in positions of power, which changed them and changed his relationship to them. Tsedu did not speak of objectivity and balance, but of remaining true to the calling of journalism “irrespective of how close we were to those in power.” He had always had an international perspective, he said, but Harvard allowed him to understand transitions of power in more universal terms. When the old bosses are replaced by new bosses—whether in South America, Bosnia, Poland or South Africa—the freedom of journalists to expose greed and abuse of power “should be defended every day.”[24]

White South African Nieman fellows often found that their year at Harvard opened up new approaches to journalism, coverage that was more contextual and less restricted by “balance.” Tim du Plessis, an editor and senior political writer for the Afrikaans daily Beeld in 1992 when he left for Harvard, said his Nieman experience made him realize the need to move beyond so-called balanced reporting, “as noble as that idea is.” He was particularly moved by Bill Kovach, the Nieman curator at that time, saying public-interest journalism was as close as he would ever come to religion in his life. Du Plessis realized that “we neglect our duty as public-interest journalists if we accept the job is done once we’ve done enough ‘balanced reporting’.” Du Plessis continued: “We need to reveal what the real story is and what it means, firstly to our audiences but as important, to the broader community in whose interest we are supposed to function and to whom we are accountable.” The thinking of white South African Niemans became more critical and analytical, they said. “The influence on my mindset was enormous,” says J. Hennie van Deventer, now retired after decades as editor of several prominent Afrikaans newspaper. “For the first time I was seriously confronted by peers on the political dispensation taken for granted by me and others at home.” Van Deventer and another Nieman, Ton Vosloo, became “relatively enlightened” editors credited with leading conservative Afrikaner newspapers to begin opposing grand apartheid in the 1980s.[25] “My mindset gradually changed,” says van Deventer, “from uncomfortable acceptance to doubt to questioning.”[26]

The white Niemans tended to attribute their intellectual opening up to the diversity and insight of people they got to know at Harvard. Richard Steyn, the editor who came to appreciate the disinvestment movement and international boycotts of South Africa the year he encountered the makeshift shanty town on Harvard Yard, mentioned all the ways people broadened his perspective. He said he benefited from Nieman seminars, talks with curator Howard Simons, brown-bag lunches at the John F. Kennedy School of Government, and time spent with other Nieman fellows, foreign and domestic. “I had always had a particular interest in American politics and was able to observe the Reagan presidency up close,” Steyn wrote. He would later become editor-in-chief of South Africa’s largest daily, The Star. Tony Heard, editor of the daily Cape Times from 1971 until coming to Harvard in 1987, was able to get to know “newspaper greats” such as Anthony Lewis and John B. Oakes of New York Times fame, curator Simons, and Sen. Edward Kennedy. “We had access to the whole realm of learning and discussion that was Harvard,” Heard wrote. “This equipped me the more effectively to get a grip on U.S. and world events as they unfolded in my second career as freelance columnist and later (from 1994) special adviser . . . to ministers and presidency in democratic South Africa.”[27]

Two white female South African journalists appreciated the benefits of the international perspective they gained at Harvard in the period after the fall of white-minority rule in South Africa. Barbara Folscher, who produced current affairs programs for the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) after her 1994-95 Nieman year, said that the fellowship enabled her to see her country, its culture, and its challenges, from the outside. “It affirmed my sense of what mattered, what were important stories,” Folscher wrote. “It gave me the courage to work purely as a journalist, to shed the cultural ‘cloak’ of being a white South African.” Kim Cloete, another SABC reporter who had her Nieman year in 2005-06, also said she gained a wider perspective by putting South Africa into its world context. When she arrived at the Lippmann House, the Nieman Foundation was in a process of change, adding smaller specialize programs to the traditional fellowship year. This included an annual Nieman Conference on Narrative Journalism, a narrative writing class for the fellows, and an online Nieman Storyboard narrative digest.  The idea of narrative was something Cloete absorbed intently, and took back to South Africa. “I studied several courses in film and documentary at Harvard, which made me determined to buy my own video camera and film a documentary,” she said. She continued working for SABC for nearly four years, managing an office with some 35 full-time and freelance workers. But unlike some of the other South African Nieman fellows who rose to top positions with their news organizations or in the government of the new South Africa, Cloete resigned from the government-run SABC to freelance as a documentarian and to run media training workshops. Harvard “made me realize that I wanted to think broader and be more independent rather than move up the corporate ladder.”[28]

While black South African journalists before 1994 had little choice but to question the status quo, the white Niemans, particularly the Afrikaners, noted that their year at Harvard gave them a fresh confidence to confront power and question authority. Steyn said it strengthened his resolve to oppose apartheid and continue to campaign for political change on his return. For more recent white South African Niemans, the confidence they gained came from new and more global tools of the craft. Carmel Rickard had been a one-person bureau for Reuters and BBC radio out of Natal Province, then worked for a daily in the area. Her Nieman year, she said, gave her confidence to specialize in legal reporting and take a post-graduate degree in law. She spent much of her Nieman year at Havard Law School. Janet Heard, who in 2009-10 was a Nieman Fellow like her father Anthony Heard had been,  said her year away helped her come to terms with the digital media trends around the world. It also “instilled renewed passion and vigor in the craft.”  Johanna Van Eeden-Spalding, the last Nieman from South Africa before the business model changed in 2014, said the year away equipped her with a broad spectrum of journalistic skills that enabled her to return to her job with confidence.[29]

When asked to consider the mechanisms by which a year at Harvard provided broader perspective or a new confidence, the South African journalists point to getting away from their country, as if snapping out of a daze. At least this was a refrain for white reporters and editors recalling working under apartheid. “The whole package of experiencing the American culture and society reshaped many of my views and values,” said Hennie van Deventer. For Harald Pakendorf, “being away from South Africa” was the ticket, along with Nieman classes, Nieman seminars, and friendship with one particular Nieman. He spent many hours talking with this friend, Joe Strickland, a black reporter from Detroit. “Looking back, I would say that that friendship helped me greatly in understanding what my country was doing wrong,” Pakendorf wrote. Of all the influences, the most powerful was “getting away from the restrictive world of apartheid to an environment where the First Amendment rules,” said Tony Heard. It was a transition “from the abnormal to the normal, from the depressing to the inspiring.”[30]

Shedding the weight of South Africa’s history for nine months was a liberating experience even for those who arrived in Cambridge after the freeing of Mandela and unbanning of the ANC. “What a relief it was to get out of South Africa for that time!” wrote Carmel Rickard, who came in 1991 with her then-husband, Gerald Patrick “Paddy” Kearney. (Kearney, director of Archbishop Denis Hurley’s Diakonia, was held under indefinite solitary detention and contracted TB in prison, and eventually was cleared of all charges in a landmark case against the apartheid government.)  Being a one-person news bureau was a pressure cooker, Rickard said, “and after covering bomb attacks and other mayhem for many years I needed time to think about whether this was really what I wanted to do as a journalist.” She decided it wasn’t, and with the inspiration of Harvard Law courses, eventually switched from covering violence to writing about the intersection of law and politics. Barbara Folscher, the former SABC producer, said that for her, “to be free from South Africa’s history, pressures and daily challenges was an unusual gift—the ‘free’ time allowed me to gain energy.” For Kim Cloete, class of 2006, to step off the work treadmill was liberating. “It gave me the chance to think more laterally, ponder issues and examine journalism anew.”[31] 

A Two-Way Transaction

The social and soulful transaction of the Nieman year was a two-way exchange. The American journalists gained a more nuanced perspective from having a fellow journalist from South Africa as a classmate and friend. Most of the Nieman fellows were well-read regarding South Africa, but time spent in Lippmann House seminars and social hours with a journalist from there gave them a deeper sense that the racial situation was long-standing and complex, Richard Steyn said. Steyn’s year, 1985-86, was full of international headlines of violence and protest around South African events. Hennie van Deventer, another white Afrikaner, arrived at Harvard in the wake of the 1976 uprising of black youth in the Soweto townships. Several classmates were surprised to meet “an Afrikaner Nationalist” in those times, van Deventer said, “and to find in him the qualities of a fellow human being with the same interests, tastes and distastes, humor, values . . . fears and doubts.” The fellows could talk across the distance of their experience with a perspective of personal trust and respect. “And how we did!” Du Plessis felt he offered the other Niemans an interesting perspective as an Afrikaans journalist opposed to apartheid while most of his readers were not.[32]

The American journalists learned first-hand what it was like to be in a land where journalism could be suppressed as treason and a writer could be isolated and tortured. “In South Africa,” said Tony Heard, “we had a built-in opportunity as journalists to challenge naked power with our pens when the climate was highly adverse for this.” Sharing this experience gave American journalists some inspiration to prepare for the same conditions “should intolerance one day—maybe because of terrorism or other dire events—raise its ugly head in the land of the free,” Heard wrote. Paddy Kearney, the husband who came with Nieman fellow Carmen Rickard, shared his experience serving indefinite detention in isolation. “He was able to give a first-hand view of that aspect of South African life, as well as of the work that led to his detention,” Rickard recalled. “I think the combination would have been important for the other fellows to hear.” In 1996-97, the Nieman fellows heard stories from black journalist Mathatha Tsedu harking back to the worst horrors of apartheid from more than a decade earlier. Tsedu introduced the fellows to African food in his cultural sharing called a “sounding,” with porridge from maize meal he had imported, including Mopani worms. This is when he told them about what had happened to him and his family with detentions, harassment, bannings, and torture. He showed them a documentary in which Jeffrey Benzien, a Cape Town policeman whose job was extracting confessions with torture, demonstrated to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission one of his techniques. It was the same torture that had been used on Tsedu. He said the other Niemans were shocked.[33]

Some South African Niemans created lasting friendships. Tsedu, now retired from Media24 and director of a national editors association, said he has kept up with friends he made of the U.S. and international fellows. Some classes didn’t stay in touch, as du Plessis said of his class of ‘93. But others, like Barbara Folscher, class of ’95, said they made friends for life. “They say their understanding of South Africa became more nuanced,” she said. “Over the years, some have contacted me to ask my opinion about events as they were reflected in the U.S.”[34]

The relationship, at best, worked toward a common understanding of the universality of their values as journalists and as human beings. “The fact that freedom is indivisible always came out strongly at the Nieman Foundation,” Tony Heard wrote. Nieman fellows from nearly two decades later also experienced this commonality. “The American journalists were interested in South Africa’s apartheid history and the way it had affected our work as journalists,” said Kim Cloete, class of 2006. “They were also interested in the issues we considered important.” South Africa has created its own sort of people, adaptable and able to solve problems, as Eeden-Spalding, class of 2014, put it. She hoped she contributed some of this adaptability to her fellows. But as journalists, she said, “we also have a lot in common with journalists from other countries and I think people are immediately in a better space when they get the feeling that they are not alone.”[35]

Conclusion: The Difference They Made

Overall, Nieman fellows returned to South Africa to hold or gain positions of influence in the nation’s news media, which is to say, they played a significant role in challenging apartheid with the pen and building a new democracy with a strong free-press Constitution. Some of their influence and status came from the mere fact that they were Niemans and were linked to Harvard. “Most have been significant in the newspaper business or TV and radio, where the fact that they have been Nieman fellows gives them extra cachet, clout, in their work,” said Carmen Rickard, class of ’92, who does not consider herself in this category. “It is always a scoop to have the Niemans back a campaign or make a statement of support for some issue.” Many of those who were not editors or producers had their impact as columnists, commentators, and consultants in journalism and in the broader media environment, said Kim Cloete, class of ’06. Janet Heard, the South African Nieman fellow in 2009-10 and daughter of Tony Heard, summed it up: “Many of the fellows have played a leading role, both during and after apartheid, in the struggle for press freedom and broader struggle for a just society.”[36]

Asked to name some of the most influential fellow Niemans, the positions they held, and their stories, the 11 Niemans who responded to the questionnaire cited dozens of fellows. In addition to the two near-legendary black Niemans from the 1960s, Lewis Nkosi and Nat Nakasa, who were not allowed to return and are both now deceased, here are some of the others they held up.

 Allister Sparks, class of ’63, “went on to edit the courageous Rand Daily Mail in the Laurence Gandar [editor-in-chief of RDM from 1957-69] tradition of vehement rejection of apartheid, and, more than any other single journalist or editor, was instrumental in bringing down Prime Minister (later briefly President) John Vorster.” (Tony Heard). Sparks became well known to American readers as South African correspondent for the Washington Post.

Tertius Myburgh, class of ’66, edited the Sunday Times, the largest-circulating newspapers in South Africa, until quitting in 1990, the year he died at age 53. His journalism also appeared in Time magazine and the New York Times.

Ton Vosloo, class of ’71, became editor of Beeld and eventually CEO and later chair of Naspers, a giant Afrikaans media and internet chain formerly called Nasionale Pers. In 1981, Vosloo wrote a controversial but prescient column telling National Party leaders that they would someday have to talk to the banned African National Party.

Percy Qoboza, class of ’76, wrote a popular political column for the Soweto newspaper The World and spent six months in jail after the government shut the paper down in 1977. In 1984, became editor of another popular black newspaper, the City Press, laying groundwork for changes he would not live to see. A few weeks after a heart attack, he died on his 50th birthday in 1988.

Donald Woods, class of ’79, as editor of the East London Daily Dispatch, led the outcry against the government’s claim that police were not responsible for the death of Black Consciousness leader Steven Biko while in police custody. Woods claimed Biko was murdered by “Kruger’s men,” referring to J.T. “Jimmie” Kruger, the Minister of Justice. For this, Woods was banned from publishing or meeting with more than one person outside his family. After a daring escape, followed by his Nieman fellowship, he campaigned against apartheid from outside the country. He died in London in 2001 at age 67.

Zwelakhe  Sisulu, class of ’85, was editor of The New Nation while his father, ANC leader Walter Sisulu, was in prison with Nelson Mandela. He was himself imprisoned several times, including two years spent in detention without trial after his Nieman year. Under the new democratic regime after 1994, Sisulu became director-general of the South African Broadcast Corporation (SABC). He died in 2012 at age 61.

Richard Steyn, class of ’86, was editor-in-chief of the Johannesburg Star and served on several boards of U.S.-South Africa programs with connections to Harvard. Having left fulltime journalism some 20 years ago, Steyn said he didn’t feel qualified to talk about the post-apartheid news media in South Africa with any insight. But he said that, on balance, the print media under apartheid played a positive and influential role in the relatively peaceful transition from white to multi-racial rule and that Nieman fellows such as Sparks, Vosloo, and Qoboza “had a huge influence on the political debate in their times.”

Anthony Heard, class of ’88, was editor of the liberal English-language Cape Times from 1971 to 1987. In post-apartheid South Africa, he has served as a special advisor to various national ministries.

Moeletsi Mbeki and Joe Thloloe, both class of ’89, are today what Nieman Fellow Johanna Van Eeden-Spalding, ’15, calls “critical patriots” in a country where the government is increasingly demanding that journalists “tell the good story.” Mbeki, the younger brother of former South African president Thabo Mbeki, is a political economist based at Witwatersrand University who frequently publishes and appears on international TV criticizing the government. Thloloe, who has worked previously for Drum, the Sowetan, the Rand Daily News, and the World, was previously banned by the white government for his work as a labor reporter. In 1997, he was in charge of SABC TV news when it gave saturation live coverage for the early weeks of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings.[37] He has led several organizations of black South African journalists and today is the Press Ombudsman for South Africa.

Joseph Latakgomo, class of ’91, founding editor of the Sowetan, is one of the most respected journalists in South Africa. In 2011, he was named public editor of the media conglomerate then called Avusa, now the Times Media Group.

Tim du Plessis, class of ’93, was editor of three major Afrikaans newspapers before becoming head of the holding company over them, Media24, from which he retired in 2014. In 1997, he was one of 130 journalists with that newspaper group, then called Naspers, to offer a statement to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission acknowledging the close ties between the Afrikaans newspapers and the National Party. The parent company denounced the journalists’ statement and refused to submit a statement of its own.[38]

Barney Mthombothi, class of ’94, is a respected columnist who previously worked for the BBC in London, was head of news at SABC, then edited the weekly Financial Mail until 2013.  

Mathatha Tsedu, class of ‘97, fought the apartheid government with his provocative column and other writings in the Sowetan. This, and his activism in trade unions, led to his being banned from publication for six years. He later became editor of the Sunday Times and City Press, and held senior positions at the national public broadcaster SABC, Sunday Independent and The Star.[39]

Henry Jeffreys, class of ’05, became an editor at Beeld and Die Burger and RobertRob” Rose, class of ’11, is an investigative reporter at the Sunday Times concentrating on financial corruption.

On the 50th anniversary of South African Nieman Fellows program, Bob Giles, then-curator of the Nieman Foundation, joined a festive celebration among alumni at the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town. In writing about his toast to the fellows gathered there, he noted that the program started because Louis Lyons recognized the need for South African journalists to be prepared for a long struggle against apartheid in their role as journalists. Lyons had made a similar, earlier calculation in bringing journalists from the American South to Harvard “to sharpen their knowledge and insight for their reporting and commentary on the American civil rights movement.” Giles observed that the community of journalists in South Africa is small and close-knit, and that the elder Nieman fellows are revered as true heroes in the freedom struggle. “It was an evening of reminiscences and an opportunity for me to offer a toast celebrating our common purpose in fostering journalistic excellence,” he wrote in 2011, “and anticipating another 50 years of South African Nieman Fellows.”[40]

That was then. Four years later, the program is in hiatus, if not dead. Other African nations, in their own need for journalism that liberates, are getting more of a chance at Nieman fellowships. Dialogue with the Nieman Foundation over a new rationale for South African Niemans may be in the works, according to du Plessis. The issue is not funding, but the need of various African counties, including South Africa, for the benefits of a Nieman fellowship to support a robust free press, said Ellen Tuttle, the Nieman Foundation’s communications officer.[41] Richard Steyn, a long-standing member of the board of the South Africa Nieman Trust, said he is concerned about the revocation of South Africa’s “special status,” no matter how much he understands the reasons for it. “This country is now a ‘normal’ member of the international community and should not expect special treatment,” Steyn said. “Nonetheless, the Nieman link has been a ‘special relationship’ that has brought inestimable benefits to both the U.S. and South African news media and it will be a pity if it’s to be brought to an end.”[42] 

Finally, the more recent South African Niemans say that the sense of continuity with history and with journalism’s elder statesmen is what makes a long-running international program like this so powerful. “I am humbled when I look at the list of South African Nieman Fellows,” wrote Johanna Van Eeden-Spalding, the latest in the line. “Most of the names on the list form the backbone of what can only be described as a fearless group of journalists that contributed to change in this country. Some of them suffered on a personal level in the line of duty. They are the voices of reason to generations of journalists.” [43]

Appendix 1 – South African Nieman Fellows

The following list of South African Nieman Fellows incorporates information provided by the Nieman Foundation and the Nieman Society of Southern Africa.

Italics font indicates no known email; (d) indicates deceased; underlined are those who responded to the Questionnaire.

‘61 – Aubrey Sussens (d), Lewis Nkosi (d)

‘62 – Sebastian Kleu (d)

’63 – Allister H. Sparks

’64 – Robert C. Steyn (d)

’65 – Nataniel (Nat) Nakasa (d)

’66 – Tertius Myburgh (d)

’67 – Louis Louw (d)

’68 – Michael Green

’69 – Harald Pakendorf

’70 – John Ryan

’71 – Theunissen (Ton) Vosloo

’72 – Stewart S. Carlyle

’73 – Alfred F. Ries (d)

’74 – Ted Doman

’75 – Andrew Drysdale

’76 – Percy Peter Tshidiso Qoboza (d)

’77 – J. Hennie van Deventer

’78 – Obed A. Kunene (d)

’79 – Donald Woods (d),

John Seakalala Mojapela

’80 – Aggrey Klaaste (d)

’81 – Fleur DeVilliers

’82 – Ameen Akhalwaya (d)

’83 – Salomon de Swardt

’84 – Ivor Wilkins

’85 – Zwelakhe Sisulu (d)

’86 – Richard Steyn

’87 – Andries Van Heerden

’88 – Anthony Hazlitt Heard, Dennis Pather

’89 – Moeletsi Mbeki, Joe Thloloe

’90 – Brian Pottinger

’91 – Joseph Latakgomo

’92 –Carmel Rickard

’93 – Tim du Plessis

’94 – Barney H. Mthombothi

’95 – Barbara Folscher

’96 – Kevin Davie

’97 – Mathatha Tsedu

’98 – Kathryn Strachan, Charlotte Bauer

’99 – Philippa “Pippa” Green

’00 – Dennis Cruywagen

’01 – Paula Fray

’02 – Jabulani Sikhakhane

’03 – Susan Valentine

’04 – Lizeka Noxolo Mda

’05 – Henry J. J. Jeffreys

’06 – Catherine Jean “Kim” Cloete

’07 – Gail Lorraine Smith

’08 – Melanie Joy Gosling

’09 – Thabo Jerry Leshilo

’10 – Janet Heard

’11 – Robert “Rob” Rose

’12 – Frederick “Fred” Khumalo

’13 – Beauregard Tromp

’14 – Greg Marinovich

’15 – Johanna Van Eeden-Spalding

Appendix 2 – The Questionnaire

The following questions and request were sent Sept. 9, 2015, as an e-mail attachment to 39 alumni of the program that had sent South African journalists to Harvard University for two semesters of study as Nieman Fellows.

1. Please describe the work you did as a journalist in Southern Africa before and following your time as a Nieman Fellow at Harvard. Please give job titles and the time spent in each job.

2. In what ways did your experience at Harvard change your practices and mindset as a journalist?

3. If the experience did make a difference in how you worked and thought about journalism, to what do you most attribute that? (For example, was this mostly from your classes, from Nieman seminars, from getting to know American journalists, from getting away from South Africa for nine months, or from experiencing American culture and society?)

4. In what ways do you think your background and perspective as a South African journalist might have influenced your fellow American journalists during their Nieman year and afterward?

5. Finally, considering not only your own story, please share any ideas or specific examples of how any (or some, or all) of the 61 South African journalists who have been Nieman fellows since 1961 have played a role in South Africa’s history—during and since apartheid. (A list of all the South African Nieman Fellows since ’61 is attached.)

If you have written anything for publication that speaks to this, please consider sending me a copy, an online link or a citation that would lead me to it.

Thanks again for your help.


[1] The Lippmann House, the fifth and current home of the Nieman Foundation, was given by Harvard to the foundation, named for the influential journalist Lippmann, and dedicated in 1979.  “Present at Creation,” Nieman Reports: Special 75th Anniversary Issue,” Summer/Fall 2013, 18-19; “70 Years of Nieman Fellowships,” Nieman Foundation Annual Report 2008, p. 15.

[2] Richard Steyn, answers to Questionnaire. The Questionnaire was emailed to 39 of the surviving South African Nieman Fellows whose emails were known to the Nieman Society of South Africa. Eleven Questionnaires were returned to me with answers by Sept. 26, 2015. The questions are in Appendix 2.

[3] Donald Woods, Asking for Trouble (New York: Atheneum, 1981), pp. 13-15, 313-28.

[4] Bob Giles, Curator’s Corner, “The Value of the Nieman Fellows’ Experience,” Nieman Reports, Spring 2011, p. 3; Heard, answers to Questionnaire.

[5] John C. Osgood, “United States-South Africa Leader Exchange Program, Inc.,” The Journal of Modern African Studies (3: 1) May 1965, pp. 118-19.

[6] Tim du Plessis, emails to the author, Sept. 9 and Nov. 4, 2015.

[7] International sponsorship seems to have started with two journalists selected and supported by the Asia Foundation in 1955, Hisashi Maeda of Japan and Sharada Prasad of India. “Six Decades in Asia,” The Asia Foundation, http://asiafoundation.org/resources/pdfs/6DecadesInAsia.pdf.

[8] Kevin Grieves, Journalism Across Boundaries: The Promises and Challenges of Transnational and Transborder Journalism (New York: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2012), 634

[9] For about 25 years, international fellows numbered about two to six per year. Since the late 1980s, the number has been around 12 per year, matching the number of U.S. Nieman Fellows.

[10] Louis M. Lyons, “Harvard Meets the Press,” selection from a previously unpublished memoir in the 50th anniversary issue, Nieman Reports (Spring 1989), p. 26.

[11] See responses to Questionnaire, below.

[12] See websites of each program. http://jsk.stanford.edu/become-a-fellow/who-can-be-a-fellow/ and http://www.mjfellows.org/.

[13] Osgood, “USSALEP,” pp. 118-19.

[14] Louis Lyons, Nieman Reports, Spring 1989, p. 5.

[15] Julia Keller, “The Nieman Factor,” Nieman Reports, Special 75th Anniversary Issue(67, 2-3), Summer/Fall 2013, 34-35.

[16] Alex S. Jones, “Nieman Curator Leaving Program,” New York Times, May 26, 1989, p.

[17] John Schwartz, “John Seigenthaler, Editor and Aide to Politicians, dies at 86,” New York Times, July 11, 2014, p.

[18] “Sebastian Kleu, NF ’62, dies in South Africa,” Nieman Foundation News, Oct. 19, 2012.

[19] Keller, Nieman Reports¸75th Anniversary, p. 32; Jerome Aumente, “Looking Back: Journalists Consider the Impact of Two Harvard Semesters on Their Own Lives and Professional Careers,” Nieman Reprts, 50th Anniversary Issue  (43: 1), Spring 1989, p. 28-33; 47. Aumente, Nieman Fellow ’68, was studying midcareer and continuing education for journalists when he surveyed 571 former Niemans and got a 70 percent response rate. About half his respondents were from foreign Niemans, the largest group (10) being South African.  

[20] Allister Sparks, The Mind of South Africa (London: William Heinemann, 1990); Tomorrow is Another Country: The Inside Story of South Africa’s Road to Change  (New York: Hill and Wang, 1995); Beyond the Miracle: Inside the New South Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003).

[21] “Services Are Held For African Writers,” New York Times, July 17, 1965, p. 11; “United States-South African Leader Exchange Program,” SourceWatch, http://www.sourcewatch.org/index.php/United_States-South_Africa_Leader_Exchange_Program.

[22] Van Deventer questionnaire; “Call for Nat Nakasa Award nominations,” The Media Online, April 19, 2011, http://themediaonline.co.za/2011/04/call-for-nat-nakasa-award-nominations/; Aurelie Kalenga, “Nat Nakasa to Return Home Tdoay,” EWN Eyewitness News, Aug. 19, 2014, http://ewn.co.za/2014/08/19/Sanef-pleased-for-Nat-Nakasas-return.

[23] Percy Qoboza, “Nieman Moments,” Nieman Reports (Summer-Fall, 2013), Special 75th Anniversary Edition, p. 69.

[24] Mathatha Tsedu, Questionnaire. Tsudu has been project director of South Africa’s Press Freedom Commission and is currently director of the South African National Editors Forum.

[25] George Claassen, “Breaking the Mold of Political Subservience: Vrye Weekblad and the Afrikaans Alternative Press,” South Africa’s Resistance Press: Alternative Voices in the Last Generation Under Apartheid, Les Switzer, Mohamed Adhikari, eds. (Athens, OH: Ohio University, 2000), p. 405, 448 fn.2. “Petty apartheid,” like the Jim Crow laws in the American South, had to do with segregation of public amenities, residential areas, and social relations across the color line. Grand apartheid was about political and economic domination by the white minority.

[26] Responses to Questionnaire from du Plessis and van Deventer.

[27] Responses to Questionnaire from Steyn and Tony Heard.

[28] Responses to Questionnaire from Barbara Folscher and Kim Cloete.

[29] Responses to Questionnaire from Steyn, Rickard, Janet Heard, and Eeden-Spalding.

[30] Responses to Questionnaire from Van Deventer and Tony Heard.

[31] Responses to Questionnaire from Rickard, Folscher, and Cloete.

[32] Questionnaires from Steyn, Van Deventer, and du Plessis.

[33] Questionnaire from Tony Heard, Rickard, and Tsedu.

[34] Questionnaire from Tsedu, du Plessis, and Folscher.

[35] Questionnaires from Heard, Cloete, and Eeden-Spalding.

[36] Questionnaire from Rickard, Cloete, and Janet Heard.

[37] Joe Thloloe, “Showing Faces, Hearing Voices, Tugging at Emotions,” Nieman Reports (Winter 1998), http://niemanreports.org/articles/showing-faces-hearing-voices-tugging-at-emotions/

[38] Tim du Plessis, “Newspaper Management Keeps Quiet About Its Role in Apartheid,” Nieman Reports (Winter 1998), http://niemanreports.org/articles/newspaper-management-keeps-quiet-about-its-role-in-apartheid/.

[39] Bob Giles, “The Value of the Nieman Fellows’ Experience,” Nieman Reports (Spring 2011), p. 3.

[40] Giles, op. cit., p. 3.

[41] Ellen Tuttle, in email to the author, Nov. 9, 2015.

[42] Questionnaires from du Plessis and Steyn.

[43] Questionnaire from Johanna van Eeden Spalding.

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A night at The Community Table

LEXINGTON – The Monday nights when The Community Table hands out drive-thru takeout meals have grown cold and dark. Long gone are the twice-a-week meals served in a gesture of dignity and solidarity to all who came, ragged or spruce, and sat together to eat and talk. For years, those tables were elegantly set and served with a multi-course meal. Gone is that restaurant-without-a-cash-register. No more soft live music. No more teams of volunteers from local churches. No more long tables and busy kitchen in the building that used to house Lexington’s emergency rescue ambulances and firetrucks. The pandemic shut down those meals in March.

Preparing the drive-thru Oct. 26.

Then the summer came, and inspiration blossomed. A new form of community grew outdoors in the sunshine. Kenney’s and JAM Dawg, Good Karma and other local eateries packed healthy meals and sold them to The Community Table at a discount. TCT board members handed them out through the driver’s window, everyone in the exchange wearing a mask and smiling eyes. It was in the local paper. Every other Monday, a fortnightly freebie.

The cars square danced around the Rockbridge Area Relief Association building to pick up healthy free meals (donations welcome!) for every soul in the car. The first meal, July 6, drew only 50, but soon it grew to as much as 150. When too many meals were ordered, the extras went up the hill to the front-line workers at the hospital (which had yet to treat a Covid-19 case early in the summer). Or to idle firefighters at the station on Main Street.

Now it grows dark even as cars begin lining up an hour before the 6 p.m. start. Around the country, food pantries report rising demand. The long line here includes many large late-model cars that may have been affordable with zero-interest loans before the pandemic, but the owners seem to have entered a more desperate stage.

Board members and a couple of church volunteers have moved into the RARA food-pantry warehouse on the upper level. To hold on to the little warmth there, they dare not open any of the large bays. They hardly know each other in the smudgy light, in masks and wool hats. Masks are available for those in the cars who need them. With stricter rules now, everyone in front seats must be masked when windows are rolled down to record demographic information and receive the meals.

In Rockbridge County and its two small cities, seven have died of Covid-19. It seems worse across the land, but the numbers here have been spiking since Thanksgiving. On a per-capita basis, since March, little Lexington’s number of reported cases – 408 – is more than a third higher than the national number per 100,000.

Outside, cars wait in a snaking line to the end of the street, nearly 1,000 yards away. Headlights are on, motors running for heat, exhaust fumes whipped by bitter wind and lit by the cars’ red and white lights like smoke from an infernal region. An American flag on the pole in front of the food pantry strains toward the Blue Ridge in the night blast.

A passenger unrolls a window to say a woman without a car is standing in line with the waiting cars somewhere back there. She had walked from the subsidized housing unit a half mile away, to get meals for herself and two others. She is invited to come into the RARA warehouse. Her glasses fog above her mask and she misses a curb step, falling forward as if in slow motion. She gets up slowly, insists she’s ok. It’s a dark cold night. The cars are let into the drive 10 minutes early. The 125 meals run out with four cars left in line. Accustomed to disappointment by now, they drive away as calmly as the many cars that drove away with meals.

Doug Cumming is an associate professor of journalism at Washington and Lee University and a member of the board of The Community Table. from The Roanoke Times, Dec. 12, 2020.

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My eulogy for Joe Cumming

Daddy was not a religious man. But if the Kingdom of God is within, as Jesus says in Luke, it was there, within his mind and heart, that this Kingdom radiated. I think of it as a spectrum of energies, like the wave lengths of visible light between infrared to ultraviolet.

At one end of the spectrum was something simple: his notion that every ordinary day is an extraordinary miracle, if we could only see it. “Take any day, a soft summer day.” That’s one of the songs he wrote – lyrics and music. Or his poem that begins “One good day is only once/ And it begins forever deep.. .” when the sound of leaves laughing and “insects inspecting things unseen” are understood as “God’s odd hum.”

In an old volume of Shakespeare’s works he bought for his bride in 1949 “B.C.” (Before Children), he inscribed this: “A gift to mark the most important occasion: a day: un-marked and uncelebrated. It represents the truly important.”

At the other end of this energy spectrum was History. His mental Time Map was marked by ideas that squeezed themselves into channels like a great river system – with headwaters in the 17th and 18th centuries, joining together: democracy; free press; the profit motive; checks and balances. He taught students to see these in newspaper stories. In his lucky career with Newsweek, he saw this great force of history face to face in the Civil Rights Movement, and bore witness to it in his lyrical Southern voice.

And throughout this scale of frequencies, tinted with colors from one end to the other, the way a rainbow registers all colors without a clear boundary between them, there was his love of Embo, matched with rare chemistry by her love from him, and of family, of generations – of forbears and children and grandchildren. And on outward it went, to every wayward character he encountered in his worlds.

This was the Kingdom of God within him. His excited imagination behind those blue eyes could see it reflected even on a Sunday morning in any great sermon full of personal drama, or in the very space above the people in church, up to the rafters. He told me after church once in recent years that he could feel the presence of something in the very air above the people, a presence like love itself.

–Episcopal Church of the Epiphany, Atlanta, Dec. 15, 2020

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